The children of the orphanage were supposed to work today. Within the old, moldy kitchen the fire roared in the chamber of the oven, filling the room with the scent of burnt wood coal and appreciated warmth. A few women garbed in blue and white were flitting about, cleaning some corners. Pantries were half-full, the bread on the countertop was stale and dry.
The children, a group of six appointed to the kitchen, were sat around a table. Their waifish and thin forms were engulfed behind towering stacks of pots and plates, gunk and rust collected on their surfaces. The children were not less dirty, their rags tattered, soot-covered and ill-fitting. Eyes sunken in and cheeks sagged, doe-like irises the only sight of their remaining wonder of the youth.
Julia-Louise was still working at the orphanage, of course. She had put on a few pounds, her form had turned even more robust. With a hobble she made her way over to the children, in her arms carrying brushes and rags, a bucket of water in the other hand. The instruments of cleaning were put on the table along with the dishes, and the bucket on the ground with a splosh.
Her eyes went over each child, lingering some on one particular. Bird-nest of a ginger hair atop a pale face, eyes too big for her head, asymmetrical features and a thinned out body that looked as if it belonged to a toddler than an eight year old. All of them were ill looking, but this one, with her eyes of blue and green stood apart with her twisted, ugly visage even more. There was the slight scent of snowdrops and jasmine in the air. Julia-Louise's nose scrunched up at the sight of the ugly girl, in disbelief of how she just could be, before she turned to address them all.
Whatever whispers and chatters were going on between the children ceased.
"...some of you already helped at the kitchen before, for some of you it's your first time. It's simple. Grab a brush or a rag and get to scrubbing. I want to be able to see my own face on those surfaces."
Her tone was rather bored, annoyed even. Murmurs of 'yes madame', and the children went to pick up the brushes and rags, taking the pots. Julia-Louise pulled a stool and sat happy when none spoke up, the old stool creaking under her.
Though the peace did not last long. Just a few minutes after, from between the noise of clanking pots and pans rose another, the pained, sharp yelp of one of the children. Julia-Louise did not need to look to know which one of them the voice belonged to. It had to be her, it's always her...
One pot fell on the ground and in a clatter rolled away from the table, the children halting to look at their colleague who'd get them all in trouble.
The ginger one, from before. Her asymmetrical face had twisted to one of pain, truly an atrocious sight to the eyes, beads of tears rolling down her cheeks. Her bug-like eyes fixed on her palm she was tenderly cupping with her other hand.
"What are you whining for, Amélia?" Huffing and puffing, Julia-Louise stood up from her beloved stool, approaching the girl. "What is it this time?"
Uncaring of the fearful, pained eyes looking her way, she grabbed the child's wrist- named Amélia, to look at her palm. The skin had gone pinkish, raw, as if it had scrubbed for hours.
The girl whined a 'it hurts'. Julia-Louise wrinkled her nose once more like earlier, letting go of the hand and striking the child's cheek with the back of her hand in one swift motion unexpected of such a heavy woman. Amélia yelped, her gaze went down, her cheek went pink, and she did not speak another word.
"...I don't know how you managed that already, must be your frilly little hands- stop your whines, it's not bleeding or cut. Pick up the pot again, keep on working."
Amélia did as she was told so, going over and picking up the pot, as Julia-Louise returned to her spot. The girl did not object, but when she sat back, her whines continued in quiet and weeping. Fearing the pain Julia-Louise would bring if she raised her voice, than the burning pain upon her hands she did not have any explanation for. While some of her friends at her side gave sympathetic glances, the others looked at the unsightly child in pain with just, disgust.
When they were finished a couple of hours later, her hands were filled with blisters, skin peeling at places, and her throat was hoarse and dry from weeping in silence for so long.
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Janvier, 767
Chateaufaux
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